


give up forever // iris

by sharkduck



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, Gratuitous Use of Metaphor, Jake Being An Obstinate Shit, Mentions of Pregnancy (but only as a joke), don't look at me., im soft and a raging bisexual so have this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-08 05:56:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19864627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkduck/pseuds/sharkduck
Summary: You ask him the question that's been heavy on your mind lately."Why don't you leave?"





	give up forever // iris

Your fingertips brush over the earring, dangling from the skin of Jake's earlobe, traveling up, into his hair. Cut brutally short. The earring's partner is somewhere out in the wide world, but there's a secret dangling from your own ear, a third. Almost exactly the same, but not quite. Never matching up to the real thing.

Jake got it for you. When he started being serious instead of treating _you_ and _this_ like a summertime fling.

It's the closest to a promise ring you think he can handle.

Your nails scrape against his scalp, and he lets out a noise that you can kind of approximate to a purr if you squint hard enough. Staring blankly at the too-expensive TV on an even more expensive couch. It's not even that comfortable, and you find yourself wondering. Wandering. Spiderwebs, angling at sharp degrees, coalescing into a single crystal that you can grab and turn over and peer at.

The cigarillos crushed in the ash tray cost more than some peoples' down-payments on expensive engagement rings.

Your hands travel from his hair and down, brushing against the earring again, palms moving over his shirt, half-unbuttoned and stopping when you can't reach anymore. Jake hums. His hands find your forearms to hold them close. Careful, because you've seen him dent steel and crack concrete with those hands. Still watching TV. Still blissfully unaware at the nagging at the back of your mind that's been there for days. The peace of the moment is locked in the air, suspended; easily broken but comforting when it's whole, and you're about to knock the amber off the tree to let the insects loose. You shift until you can lean forward and kiss the top of his head.

"Gross," he mumbles, but he grabs your arm with his gentle hand and brings your wrist to his lips. "What do you want?" Rough and acidic but you smile at the burn, because it's his version of the disgusting puppy-talk between couples you see on the street and in television.

"I'm pregnant."

Jake chokes, jumping out of his skin. Your serene smile must worry him, because he gets paler and paler and somewhat green the more the silence hangs between you.

"Are you fucking serious?" You let him dangle for a little while longer, before you laugh in his face.

"No, dumbass." You take the liberty of kissing the top of his head again, which he grunts at, getting his revenge by holding your hand to his chest and running the pad of his thumb over your knuckles; calloused hands, tracing patterns over your skin.

"Jake." You keep talking, because you really were just opening up with a joke as a foray into more serious topics.

"What do you want now?" There's serious concern in his voice, and it shines through the playful rudeness; he turns his head so he can look at your more fully, undivided attention and sharp eyes. You swallow. Your arm curls around his shoulders. You ask him the question that's been weighing so heavy on your mind lately, idly playing with the collar of his shirt so you don't have to look him in the face.

"Why don't you leave?" Jake tenses. Frowns. "Not _the apartment,_ but - you know, like, leave Hollow Ground."

"You mean get out?"

"Yeah."

His nostrils flare as he lets out a sigh through his nose, staring at the ceiling. He turns your hand over to trace more patterns into your palm. "Because I can't."

"You can't? Is - God, you're not a _hostage_ are you?"

"What the fuck? No. I just - can't." he sits up, turning so that you can curl your legs back and he has a seat on the couch that isn't your knees. Facing you. Fixing you with that look, that hyperfocus. Nothing in the room but you.

"Hollow Ground," Jake says, "has done a lot for me. I'm not going to just up and pack my shit, see you later. Besides," he makes a small sweeping motion with his hand, before it comes back to yours, like an anchor, "I get paid lots of money to do something I'm good at and I think is fun, why would I leave?" You're not going to mention the fact that he thinks breaking faces is fun and entertaining; the two of you have had that circular conversation before.

"You're good at other things."

"Like?"

"You're pretty good at CoD?" He reaches up with a scoff to teasingly twist your nose.

"Funny. Doesn't count." He brushes hair from your forehead. "Why are you bringing this up?" Because you're worried. Because you don't want him hurt. He is not as indestructible as he seems, and you tell him so, because Jake tends to just outright ignore subtlety.

"Working for Hollow Ground is dangerous. I don't want to see you get killed."

"Hollow Ground wouldn't let that happen."

"Because you're valuable? Jake," you take both his hands and hold them to your chest; he could break free if he wanted, easily, but he doesn't. He lets you hold him. Lets you marvel at the scars across his knuckles. You hold back from saying the truth, the _Hollow Ground does not give a single shit about anyone except Hollow Ground_ truth, because he's not ready for that. Probably won't ever be ready for that. Blindly loyal to a fault. You trace the outline of a scar with your fingertips.

"You don't have to own fancy things to be happy, Jake. You can just - I dunno, own a bar, or something. 'Comfortable' doesn't have to be draped in silks and tacky fourteen-karat gold leaf." Jake snorts.

"It's 24 karat, jackass. And you're right," that's new, "I don't _have_ to own fancy shit," that sharp grin that you're all-too-accustomed to, teeth bared, looking more like a hyena than a smile, "I _wanna_ own fancy shit."

Your eyes roll of their own accord. Hard enough to hurt. Jake brings your knuckles to his lips and plants a kiss there, still looking at you like you're the only thing in the room. The kisses move up. To your wrist. He leans in to plant more on your collar bone.

"'Sides," he rumbles, "'f I'm not pulling money out my ass, I can't spoil you." Up your neck. A playful nip to your jaw.

"With gourmet Cheez-Its, maybe," you say, teasing, because he really does spoil you; whatever you want, or need. Which, to be fair, most of the time is gourmet knock-off Cheez-Its. "You've never spoiled me in your life. Meanie. It's terrible. I live in a dog cage, basically."

"Oh yeah?" Of course he'd take that as a challenge. "Lemme prove it to you. What d'you want?"

"I dunno." A long pause. A _very_ long pause. And you can tell that Jake is contemplating something that you may or may not approve of, from the way his eyes search your face, unblinking, gauging your reaction.

"How 'bout a ring?"

You choke.

"That's- Jake, you know that's-"

"Serious?"

"I'd need some convincing, is all."

His growing, devious smirk tells you that you'll be convinced by the end of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> yes the title comes from googoo dolls' "Iris" no i am not taking constructive criticism on my terrible music taste at this moment


End file.
